Offerings for Memorial Day
by Lyllyn
Summary: Two short ficlets written for the HASA Memorial Day Challenge, one featuring Eowyn and the other Glorfindel.
1. Offerings

A/N: These were written for the HASA Memorial Day Challenge, the theme being 'One character's remembrance of war,' each story limited to 500 words. Since these are so short, I'm putting both in as two 'chapters' even thought they are not related aside from the theme of the challenge. Dedicated to Dwim, for her unbelievable and wicked persistence in siccing Nuzgûl on casual passers-by.  
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Every year at this time she grows quiet and edgy. Small sudden noises, like a dropped fork, make her start. The sight of her young son playing brings forth occasional tears, swiftly hidden.  
  
Many folk at this time of year remember, and mourn.  
  
The Pelennor was dark, and the sun hid her face from Men. "The foul one has conquered even the heavens," said some. "Then there is no hope, and we are doomed!" said others. There were many that said little, but threaded their way into mail shirt and greave, cuirasse and helm; taking up the bitter burden of sword, spear or bow.  
  
She recalls then that burden, and that it was bittersweet on her body and in her blood. Bitter, that she had lost lovéd cousin and other well-known warriors of their household to the contest of arms. Bitter that lack of honor in her land and kin had driven her to this. Bitter and befouled by a traitor's covetous gaze and lingering unclean touch.  
  
But there was also sweet, strange though it tasted: the sweet rush of action at last which carried her along on its seductive wind. The sweet fierceness like a hawk choosing her own time and prey. The sweet joy of proving to herself and others that she was more than worthy of a blade.  
  
Bitter and sweet had not been all, there was more: the piercing sorrow of loss of one who stood as father to her until he fell, first beneath the poisoned breath of a worm, later beneath his own horse. The rush of the wind, the joy of the hunt and the boon of victory, all brought to nought when one awakens and there is no healing for the spirit.  
  
And that is what she remembers best at this time. That in the end, whatever difference it made to others, it made little to her when she woke - still broken. Great deeds did not redeem the damaged soul.  
  
And on this day, sometimes she wonders, was she right? At her hands a great evil fell, and perhaps none other could have done as she did.  
  
Was she wrong? She left her duty and people, and disobeyed the orders of her liege lord.  
  
It is one day of remembrance each year, when like a fine bouquet of flowers she lays her service to healing on the altar of her past disobedience and despair.  
  
  



	2. Cunning Gold

I'm afraid this one is _very_ short.  
  
  
  
_"Glorfindel bare a mantle so broidered in threads of gold that it was diapered with Celadine as a field in spring; and his arms were damascened with cunning gold."_  
  
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The forces of Morgoth come again, as we knew they must one day. And this time it is not at the enemy's gates, but at our own that we fight. This time I think we will not escape; there is no Hidden City to whose haven we may retreat. Fortune favored my Lord Turgon last time, but I much doubt we will fare the same this day.  
  
That battle, Nirnaeth Arnoediad, has haunted my thoughts over the years, as it has for all who fought on that accursed plain. I saw so many fall, mutilated, burned, tormented by Balrog or dragon or treacherous Men. Fingon, greatest of those of us left on these shores, was overcome and killed with cruelty. We could not win, we could not hold, we could only retreat, and that chance bought for us dearly.  
  
Now I stand here clad in a ridiculously elaborate mantle of gold, and hear comrades jest about my vanity. I smile with them, relaxing the discipline of my command so that all may laugh a bit. It will be the last time, I fear. Shall I tell them it is deliberate, that knowing what is said of me, I have courted their mirth today, as I have nothing else to offer my warriors?  
  
Certainly not hope. Certainly not victory.  
  
I give them what I can. The smile, and my life are all that is left. And I fear neither will survive this day.   
  
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A/N: The quote above from Book of Lost Tales 2 has always made me wonder 'Why would Glorfindel wear something like _that_, especially going into battle?' This challenge inspired me to find an answer.  
  
  



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